


One: Pull Over

by KawaiiKoala34



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Potentially a multi-chaptered fic, so other characters will appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:54:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KawaiiKoala34/pseuds/KawaiiKoala34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This can be read as a stand alone piece but at its highest potential I will be writing 100 chapters of different ways these cuties say I love you without actually saying it. I'm sorry this is unbeated! (I should probably edit this eventually).<br/>Comments always welcome!</p></blockquote>





	One: Pull Over

You never thought you’d hear yourself say this, but you think you might actually miss the sight of stars. Looking out at the whirring blur of corn field after corn field, bores you after a few minutes. You think it’s because of the colors; the dull spark of yellow amongst the grass green setting itself against the cloudless white blue sky just doesn’t hit you the same way your memories always claim they used to. Lately, you think, with your head bumping slightly against fake glass, it’s the burst of limitless colors set against the utter black of space that has you gasping in awe at what beauty could be. But still, the fears not totally gone and more often than you’d like to admit the only way you get yourself to look out on the observation decks are when Jim’s there with you, hiding his knowledge of your joy under the guise of “Come on Bones, come with me just this once.”  


If you happen to take his hand when you two enter, and guide yourselves as close as you feel comfortable, well, only Jim’s small smug smile knows that.  


Speaking of the blond menace that seems to be at the root of most of your recent happy memories—a fact which scares you because even you can admit you got issues about intimacy and trust as big as the grand canyon—you glance to your left at Jim. Instantly, your eyes roam as they catalogue any and every detail. You don’t know when you started doing that, probably sometime between that time you think of as “when I gave Death the middle finger and took Jim back” and the start of the five year mission. First, you see the way his shoulders are tight and tense, humming with potential energy. Next, it’s his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the nervous tap tap tap of his non driving foot, the grim set of his mouth. Lastly, you notice the dark, almost bruise like rings under his eyes which, most importantly, are duller than you ever remember seeing them. Jim just looks so tired it makes your heart ache.  


Suddenly, the real reason you and Jim have been sitting in an actual god forsaken metal contraption people in the 20th to 21st century called a car since probably five this morning comes back to you.  


“Of all the stupid hare brained stunts you’ve pulled, this one probably takes the cake,” is the beginning of your normal bitching rant. You run the tricorder over Jim’s battered face, and move to his torso as he just blankly stares back at you.  


“Did you even bother to check the perimeter before you split the landing party up? Which, by the way, I was not invited to and for once, I’m not glad you actually listened to me. God Jim, I get it, shit happens and you’re the captain, but this is the third mission in a row where the locals carved into you like a thanksgiving Turkey! Do you even have any self-preservation cells left or did you give them all away to the rest of the damn crew!”  


You finish with a huff as you begin to put the regenerator on the worst of Jim’s injuries but all you get in response is a small sigh. It startles you probably more than any scathing remark Jim usually shoots back at you in times in of distress ever has. You stop the regenerator for a second, and Jim looks up, speaking for, actually the first time since he came in you don’t know how you missed that at the time: “just finish the damn session so I can leave, ok Doctor?”  


The lack of a nickname stings for reasons you push away because right now your feelings aren’t relevant, and make a note to talk to Spock. [which, you also remember, only made you more worried for Jim’s best friend since coming into his deserved captaincy only remarked that this “was troubling Doctor, but no more so than the captain’s behavior over the past week. I was about to inform you when we got the emergency distress signal that lead to this mission.” It made you angry for not noticing it yourself, and you growled a “you should’ve informed me, the CMO of this ship, sooner you hobgoblin.” That helped at the time, even if Spock didn’t seem bothered in the least, but thinking on it now just makes you embarrassed]  


In the moment though, you simply say, “sure, Jim” in what you hope is your softest tone, and you can’t help but notice Jim’s small flinch.  


It gives you pause and for a minute you feel like shit for falling asleep and allowing Jim to just drive and stew in all the feelings he has to be letting fester in the pit of his stomach.  


“Jim,” you say because you have to start somewhere.  


“What, Bones,” he bites out, not even bothering to make it sound like a question. He twists his right hand on the wheel as his shoulders, if it’s even possible, get tenser.  


You open mouth, whether it’s for a retort to his rude response or a soft request to talk about it, you’re not entirely sure but when Jim glances at you and you see the hint of fear and trepidation in his gaze you sputter to a halt, closing your mouth shut. What you want to do is take away all of Jim’s pain, or at the least, show him you care, that he may have pushed everyone else away to see their families, even going so far as to force Spock to go New Vulcan, but he still had people who cared. He still had you.  


The warm place in your mind where you store all you Jim related feelings (a mansion sized place at this point) gets warm and fuzzy with everything that you want to say, and what you need to do suddenly becomes perfectly clear: “Pull over. Let me drive a while.”  


When Jim glances over this time you just stare right back, unrelenting and he nods ever so slightly, pulling to the side, as other, fancier crap whizzes by. You both settle in, but you can see he’s still not relaxed, his mind is going to too fast, thinking too much a cruel price to pay for genius. You know what to do.  


“Did I ever tell you about that time I had to get brought down from a tree by a firefighter? No? Well that’s always a kicker, my papa loves,” you cough a little, “loved to tell that story every time we met someone knew. It was a great ice breaker for him, but never made me many friends.” You attempt a smile, and you can see out of the side of your eyes that Jim’s attentive, seemingly glad for the distraction.  


“I was seven and my house, a McCoy family house since the 2000’s, was full of nooks and crannies for shit to crawl into. And I kid you not I found a bug as big as your fool head,”  


“No way Bones,” a response, good you think.  


“Seriously Jim! Seven year old Leonard McCoy never lied, it was huge and it was the scariest thing I had ever seen.” You continue on, exaggerating your words like you used to with Joanna. Maybe it never gets quite the laugh it had ascertained from your five year old baby girl, but maybe it makes this particular owner of your heart (you can admit it to yourself sometimes), smile, and their eyes light up a little at your childhood humiliation. For you, that’s enough.  


Hours go by as you continue to share and share and share. Sometimes it’s funny, and sometimes it’s not—you forgot that talking about your dad can still, despite the years gone by, make you so full of guilt it makes you a little sick—but either way Jim’s eyes seem clear, and his shoulders slump comfortably in his position against the window as he faces you, so it’s a job well done in your mind.  


Later, when you two are stopped at a local hotel for the night and you each nurse a beer. You faintly see tears on Jim’s face as he mutters a, “thanks Bones.” Eventually, you know he’ll talk to you about whatever really happened, what’s really been going on with him, but you have a whole eight days for that. For now, this is good.  


What you had meant earlier, way back when the two of you switched positions, what you knew Jim needed was: “I love you.” You think Jim knows this, in his own way.

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand alone piece but at its highest potential I will be writing 100 chapters of different ways these cuties say I love you without actually saying it. I'm sorry this is unbeated! (I should probably edit this eventually).  
> Comments always welcome!


End file.
